


There Be Dragons

by Nabé (naberriel)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Self-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:40:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24314440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naberriel/pseuds/Nab%C3%A9
Summary: "Oh, Daeme," Jenny whispered, and I leaned into the hand that cupped my cheek.I'd never found her beautiful, her brown hair and eyes and tawny skin a poor man's fortune next to the alabasters and golds and rubies of my sister and mother. But in that moment, there was no sunrise, no mountain of riches, no magic in the world that could make me look away."Had you been a man, I would've told you that kindness is strength." She ducked lower, and one of the flowers she'd woven in her hair fell on my forehead. "But you are a dragon.".When you're a Targaryen, the Game is not about winning the Throne. It's about keeping your sanity.
Kudos: 23





	There Be Dragons

258 A.C

Rhaella

It took all she had in her to not scream as her handmaidens slip the satin dress on her. Her hands trembled when she helped them pin the dark red cloak around her shoulders. No one commented on her hitched breaths, or the way she cringed at every sound that traveled out of the courtyard below and into the window of her room.

A room that would soon no longer be hers. No longer Rhaella's.

A cup was placed in her hands, dusk-colored hands encircling her pale ones. Rhaella looked up into Mirana's warm nrown eyes.

"Drink," the Dornish princess said softly, "It'll help."

Nothing can help me now, Rhaella thought desperately, but all she did was obediently take a sip from the cup. Hot, hot, hot dornish wine hit her tongue, immediately sending her into hacking coughs. She could feel a burn as the beverage slipped past her throat to settle as a buzzing candle in her gut. Mirana's loud laugh echoed through the room, and even a few handmaidens had to stiffle giggles as they continued with their task of preparing her.

"Some spice to settle that dragon I can hear rumbling within you!" The dark-haired woman declared and proceeded to swipe the cup from Rhaella's hands and finish it herself. "For the finest lass this side of Westeros!"

Rhaella's throat produced a hoarse but genuine laugh and for a moment she was overwhelmed with gratitude for these women, standing with her in what seemed to be the worst day of her life. Don't let me lose them, she prayed to any god that might be listening. Don't steal my friends away like you've done my freedom.

As the laughter died out, a male voice called from behind them, "How is my sister doing on this fine day?"

Rhaella whirled around, hand reaching up to grasp her throat, where she'd hastily stifled a scream. Her handmaidens had no such inhibitions; their gasps of surprise were drowned by Mirana's loud curse, "Warrior's balls, don't you know how to knock-", but nobody bothered telling the Princess of Dorne to curb her tongue in the presence of royalty.

Especially since the one who enabled her was standing by the door, leaning with crossed arms against one side. He looked dapper and handsome in his simple white tunic and dark breeches, black boots polished in the glint of the sun streaming through open windows.

"Daemetrys," Rhaella said amiably, voice soft to hide the slight hoarseness. His name was the first word to slip past her lips this morning. "We didn't hear you."

"That must be because I did not knock. The door was open." He smirked at Mirana, who shot him a playful glare. His eyes, a bright violet, flickered to her ladies in waiting and then back to her, awaiting. He didn't need to say anything else. He didn't need to.

"Ladies," she said, clasping her hands together, "Go make yourself ready for the day. I do want my friends to shine alongside me. The servants will take care of any other matters."

Most of them nodded and bowed, and started to leave her room in little groups, already whispering excitedly about the day's events and throwing expectant glances at the Prince, who did his best to appear aloof as he pushed himself off the doorsill and approached her.

Everyone left, except Mirana, who hesitated. "Rha- I mean, Princess Rhaella, are you certain?" Almond-shaped eyes narrowed at Daemetrys before scanning her for any sign of distress. "There's still so much to be done..."

Normally, the fierce Princess of Dorne wouldn't have bothered herself with trivial concerns like these. Getting ready for a wedding didn't need protecting, or any more attention or thought than a few congratulations after all. But Mirana Martell had lived through a wedding without female relatives to support her, and a brother who despised her, and had more than enough reason to be wary of men on wedding days. Never mind that she usually got along well enough with the second Prince.

If they have a cock, they're the enemy.Mirana had once told her conspiratorially, whispering in her ear during a feast while they both threw mocking glances at Prince Aerys, who'd been trying to woo his way into a noblewoman's skirts all evening long, and failing miserably.

The reminder of her husband-to-be's whoremongering ways left a crop of dread in her gut, but Rhaella managed to reassure her friend with a serene smile, "I will be fine. Thank you, Princess Mirana."

The Dornish princess was visibly holding back a protest but raised her skirts and bowed before heading out. She didm't miss the chance to glare at Daemetrys all the way to the door, which she closed with a bang.

Daemetrys turned back to Rhaella, eyebrow raised, "Your handmaidens are loyal, but Mirana is a delightfully frightful woman. I fear for my manhood everytime I catch her in one of her moods."

Rhaella wanted to laugh, but all that showed was a frown.

He brother took a few quick strides to stand before her and gently grabbed her hands, and she instinctively caressed the callouses in his. He was one thumb short of being her height, despite having a year on her, but his shoulders were wider, and his arms thicker in the way all growing boys who wield the sword daily are.

Daemetrys' eyes softened from hard jewels to wine, as hauntingly beautiful as ever. The small amount of kohl he applied to them, the latest trend in courtly men's fashion, only served to accentuate their vividness. It's not the first time she felt inferior to her older brother, but today, she felt the difference between them to be an insurmountable challenge. Funny how even clothed in the finest Myrish silks and wearing the most coveted jewels of the Realms, Rhaella could not help but see herself as this lanky, clumsy doe compared to her brother's eternal grace.

"Your dress is white, but I know you are bleeding," he said and she wanted to cry at the understanding in his voice. She wanted to break and be gathered in his arms. She wanted to ask him to take her away, to bright Essos, to beautiful Lys, to the peaceful Summer Isles.

She didn't.

Her pleas stayed stuck in her throat and she couldn't find her voice anymore. She didn't have to.

Her brother knew her best and he answered, "You know I can't."

Can not, as opposed to will not.

Daemetrys loved their family too much to betray them like this. Rhaella knew that if she pushed enough, he would swipe her right off her feet and cross the Sunset Sea with her, for her. It would tear him apart, but he'd do it and he'd never blame her, because if there was one thing her brother loved more than anything in the world, it was her.

Unfortunately, Rhaella loved him back just as fiercely. She would never forgive herself if she wounded him so.

Instead she nodded and, letting herself return to the memories of a little girl who sought her brother for safety during thunderstorms, whispered, "Do my hair, Daeme."

She turned and sat herself in front of her looking glass, back straight, with her hands in her lap. Don't cry, she told the girl looking back at her, You are the blood of the dragon. Dragons don't cry. 

She tried to concentrate feel of her brother's hands gently running through her hair, braiding and twisting the strands of silver-blond, pinning them to her skull with spelds he found on the table in fron of them. She fixed her gaze on his face, serious and diligent in his task and found amusement in how it was the same face he had when thinking about affairs of the Realm, or his research and businesses.

A knock on the door broke the quiet peace between them. Despite herself, a quiet giggle escaped Rhaella at her brother's startled scowl. "What is it?" He snapped at the closed door, finishing pinning the last locks of her hair, baring her neck to the air.

"My Prince," sounded Ser Evon's voice, the Kingsguard assigned to follow Daemetrys today, "You need to prepare for the wedding. Your mother is looking for you. Better not keep her waiting, my Prince."

"Give us a moment," Daemetrys said, already turning to face her relfection in the looking glass. His hands drifted down and gripped her shoulders with firm gentleness.

Their eyes met in the mirror.

"You will be happy, Rhaella," he whispered, "Maybe not tomorrow, maybe not soon yet. It could take years before you feel true happiness again. But you will be. One day, you will be the happiest woman in Westeros. I will make sure of it."

And oh, Rhaella hated how it was not the determination in the set of his face, but the quiet rage hidden in the depths of his eyes, that convinced her to believe him.

Her eyes filled until the sight of him blurred.

...

Winter had thawed moonturns ago, but Rhaella was still glad for her wool cloak, dyed a deep red. Her breath fogged even under the forenoon sun as she stood in the courtyard of the Red Keep, waiting for her ladies-in-waiting to mount their horses.

It was time to depart for the Great Sept of Baelor, where she would say her vows and be a free woman no longer. Aerys had already ridden out with the King's retinue, taking with them more than half of the court. Daemetrys and Uncle Duncan and his wife Jenny would make up the second portion of the court. And then it would be her, accompanied by Father and Mother and her closest friends.

It was to be both a procession for an union between love and faith, and a show of wealth and power.

"The Realm should see us. See their lieges and lords. Let us not be abstract names they should obey and die for. Let them witness us." Grandfather Aegon had declared during preparations and while she'd kept her doubts to herself, her eldest brother and soon to be husband had felt no such compulsion.

He'd leant towards Daemetrys, sat as the middle child between them, and whispered loud enough for Rhaella to overhear, "Witness the wealth of those above them while they fester in their own filth."

Daeme hadn't responded, glowering at a distant point, left cheek swollen as it often got when he got distracted during spars, or spoke up against Father.

It had been Daemetrys' unexpected idea to make her ride in a wheelhouse. Mother had protested, not wanting her beauty to be hidden. Rhaella knew she was thinking about Princess Mirana, and quite a number of their handmaidens, whose faces could put the Maiden to shame at times.

Father had taken one glance at the relief in her eyes and told his wife to let it be. Mother had given Daeme a glare, "You and your devious plans."

Her brother, having now already joined the second part of the procession, had done the wise thing and kept silent, ducking his head as if chastised. He fooled no one, least of all Rhaella, who caught the wink he sent with a thankful smile. He'd mouthed, "Mirana," as soon as their mother's back was turned, and a wave of fondness for her friend befell her heart.

The wheelhouse had an elegant, if simple, design. Painted in deep red and lacquered in gold, it gleamed like the brightest jewel of Casterly Rock. But it was the horses, a tall, sleek Dornish breed draped in silks and braids that took up all her attention. Beautiful beasts, they were, and this whole gift had Mirana's touch over it.

When this is over, I'll buy her all the Harbor wine she covets so. Rhaella promised herself fervently, stroking the white horse's mane. It took her Septa a lot of grumbled promises to coax her away from tje beautiful beasts and into the wheelhouse.

"Pray to the Seven, Your Grace," her Septa Mayne told Rhaella as she fussed over the details of her hair and attire. "The Seven will guide you should you stumble and they will protect you always."

The words brought up memories from last year, to a very same cold morning when her septa had uttered the same prayer. Rhaella hadn't been alone then, with a long-suffering Aerys and lively Daeme in a sturdier wheelhouse made for long travels.

"Yes, Septa Mayne," Rhaella had acquiesced, a year younger and more carefree than she would be in the coming months. She'd been impatient to join her brothers, but knew the faster she appeased the old septa, the faster they might make for Summerhall.

But Septa Mayne had turned her sights towards the boys. "You two too, Young Dragons. Pray for guidance and for protection. The roads are dangerous and the winter has turned bandits hungry and desperate!"

"Aye, Septa," Aerys had given a lazy nod, having been under the influence of Milk of the Poppy for his broken arm, then in a sling strapped to his chest.

When Septa had turned her fierce stare on Daeme, he'd proceeded to clasp his hands together and put an air of humble supplication. "O Father, protect me from wild dragons, for they might forget that I am blood of the dragon and trample me. O Mother, guide me to wild dragons, for they might forget I am blood of the dragon and trample me!"

For some reason, Arrys had found it funny, because he'd flown into loud cackles that had devolved into hacking coughs and groans as he'd jostled his broken arm. Rhaella had had to contend with appeasing Septa Mayne's irritated confusion with demuring affirmations that she'd pray for all three of them.

Looking back on it, that was a perfect description of the relationship her brothers have with the Faith. Aerys never bothered to show anything but passing interest in the Gods, whereas the only time Daeme prayed to them with any semblance of sincerity was when it concerned dragons.

Septa Mayne had been her Mother's septa too, and her age showed in the slight tremors of her withered hands that never went away and the deep lines of her sun-darkened face. Grandmother, Queen Betha, often japed that Septa Mayne was as good as family.

"Blood of the dragon, Your Grace, you are blood of the dragon. Never forget that. This is a joyous occasion! Let it herald the coming summer. Pray, Your Grace."

Well, Targaryen blood she might not have, but Rhaella felt her Septa's worried muttering like a homecoming.

The carriage door closed on all light and sound, and she felt like a mouse in a box. Blood of the dragon, aye. She thought wryly.

Finally the wheelhouse jostled forward. Rhaella hummed a prayer, letting her mind drift. She tried to place her family and members of the court in the procession.

At the front, King Aegon and Queen Betha and Commander of the Kingsguard Duncan the Tall. Inseparable as always and followed by Aerys and his closest friend, Tywin Lannister. They were surrounded by most of the Small Council, and the Lords Paramount who came to witness the wedding. 

Mirana, as Princess and Dorne's sole representative, would be there too. Sat astride her proud black stallion, she was surely pestering a Kingsguard or Golden Cloak with outlandish stories from Dorne.

In the middle of the procession would be the smallfolk's favorite love story, Prince Duncan and his ladywife, Jenny of Oldstones. Accompanying them was Daemetrys, who'd always had a closer bond to their uncle than either Rhaella or Aerys had. He was probably getting badgered by endless questions from Steffon, while a bemused contingent young lords and ladies watched.

Then would be her party. Mother and Father and Aunt Rhaelle. Her ladies-in-waiting, shining like jewels atop their mounts. The Maester, so old and frail Aerys had once wagered ten dragon coins that a single breeze would be enough to blow him all the way over to Dragonstone. A wager Daemetrys had taken, claiming the chains of the Maester would be caught in one of the Red Keep's tower spires, and the Maester would thus be stuck up there, waving in the high winds like a banner of the Citadel.

The image of the rest of their grand family wiping away tears of laughter brought a smile on Rhaella's face.

Castor Chelsted was there too, the Master of Coins and one of Rhaella's dearest friends despite the great difference in age. Rhaelle had always had a knack for numbers and the Lord tasked with the survey of the King's coffers never seemed to mind her help in matters others would've deemed too important for 'little shy princesses.'

"Blessed be Princess Rhaella!"

The sudden clamor of people calling her name broke through her concentration. Evidently, they'd entered the popular districts. Unwittingly, Rhaella began trembling.

Was Bonifer among them?

The cheers of the crowd were overshadowed only by the thunderous beating of her heart. It was them, more than Mirana's pity, Mother's embrace, Father's reassuring eyes, more than Daeme's hidden anger, that broke the tenuous control she had.

In her carriage of gold, silk and velvet, the Crown Princess cried.

It was a long while before the horrible shaking of the wheelhouse stopped and the sound of ambodous cheering made place for harmonious chants, and Rhaella had long dried her tears by then.

She dared a peek and saw they had entered the marble plaza, filled to the brim with Holy people and nobles, maids and knights from the seven corners of the Realm.

I didn't pray, she thought, dismayed, I was too busy weeping into my frocks.The Seven forgive her for her childish selfishness. At least Septa Mayne won't find out. Small mercies.

The door was opened by a valet, but it was a Kingsguard who offered her his hand.

"Your Grace," Gerold Hightower said, looking like he'd stepped out of her favorite knight story in his white armor. Rhaella gathered her skirts, took his hand and let him help her descend from the wheelhouse.

Quiet praises and blessings were called out, but no one dared take attention away from the harmonious hymns that came from the Great Sept itself.

The moment they passed the great double doors and left the murmurs of the crowd behind, Rhaella felt her muscles loosen. The smell of incense set her nerves at ease. This was Rhaella's domain. Here, she felt the Gods' embrace keenly.

Father was the only one in the Hall of Lamps. The gentlest of smiles graced his face as they neared him, and he looked very kingly under the suspended globes of colored leaded glass that cast rays of rainbow light upon the hall.

"My beautiful daughter," he said and Rhaella couldn't be patient anymore. With a half-stifled sob she flew into his open arms, burying her face into the folds of his silk tunic. "Hush, sweetling, everything will be alright."

No, it won't, Father. Rhaella wanted to tell him. Prophecies have never been good omens when it came to us dragonfolk. But she stayed silent, chosing to profit from the last vestiges of her maiden youth.

Arm in arm with her dear father, Rhaella walked into the Hall, heralded by sweet-sounding harps and clear-voiced bards. Young noble girls were throwing flowers petals in front of the pair as they walked by. Rhaella held her chin high, her gaze on the altar, where the High Septon and her eldest brother stood.

At the end of the aisle, Father presented her silently to Aerys, who solemnly nodded. Father let go with one last squeeze and went to stand beside Mother and Grandmother. They gave her their own version of reassuring smiles.

Then came a lull in movement, where everyone waited for the song to end. It was a song of the Faith, praising the Seven. They were only at the part of the Maiden, and still had to go through that of the Smith and the Crow. It was a song for the Seven, but the last verse, that of the Stranger, would be left aside this time. It was frowned upon to call the Stranger during weddings.

Every pair of eyes was affixed on them, on her. For the first time since Ser Bonifer had crowned her his Queen of love and beauty, Rhaella felt she was the most beautiful woman in the room.

Amongst the crowd of faces were ones that stood out to her. Marina, smiling deviously, stood next to Tywin, as neutral as ever. Steffon was often quitely hushed by his father, Ormund Baratheon, because he couldn't seem to stand still.

How's this for a little shy princess? 

She stared them down, the boys of her youth. She stared them all down; first cocky Aerys, but he had his attention on someone else, so she looked at prideful Tywin, jovial Steffon, and drunk Daeme.

Wait… drunk?

She dared a second look at the far right, where Daemetrys stood between Uncle Duncan and Aunt Rhaelle. His fair face was flushed and his eyes were slightly unfocused, and he leaned into Uncle Duncan's side. Their Uncle's face held an exasperated look.

Indeed, he was drunk, even if slightly so. Rhaella didn't know whether to be reluctantly amused or extremely disappointed.

Rhaella held no desire for him, and Daeme had his heart too set on dragons and dreams to pay attention to anyone in that capacity really. But had she been given a choice, she wouldn't have hesitated to choose absent-minded Daemetrys over fickle Aerys.

No. Had she really been given the choice, she would've married neither of them. She would've sailed for the Lands of Eternal Summer. She would've hatched a dragon egg. She would've built a Sept with no Septons or Septas to besmirch the holy place with their senseless rules.

I would have been free.

The song cleared on a high note and the High Septon began, "You may now cloak the bride and bring her under your protection."

Raella kept her gaze fixed on the altar as Aerys exchanged her burgundy cloak for a black one, emblazoned in gold thread with the red three-headed dragon of their House. Red for black. He didn't make a show of it and soon they conjoined hands. 

Red for black. Soon, the Septon would wrap a ribbon around their hands, and bid them to say the vows. 

Rhaella touched the smooth silk of her new cloak with her free hand. It would offer little protection against the cold outside.

Bleeding, her brother's words came back to her. His promise. The warmth of his hands. It was washed away by the words of an old woman. A prophecy that felt like the weight of a thousand coins on her shoulders. I was bleeding, and now my flame has been smothered by the dark.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Fact: there will be no homophobia in this fic. The motto I'm using is "Fear the dragons, love the gays." Or if you're the lucky one who get to seduce my devious brat of an si, Daemetrys: "Fuck the dragon, be gay, commit treason, fuck the dragon again, do crimes." In that order ;)
> 
> Daemetrys is Bisexual ♡


End file.
